


When I Find My Peace of Mind

by PhoenixDragon



Series: Soul to Squeeze: Pitstop on the Farewell Tour [5]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Crossover, Dark, Gen, Mild Language, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-27
Updated: 2012-04-27
Packaged: 2017-11-04 09:56:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixDragon/pseuds/PhoenixDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p><b><span class="u">A/N:</span></b> As always, this fiction would not have been possible without the total support and encouragement from my little family - and my family of friends from around the world! (The Love is perpetual guise!) A lot of you know how long this road has been - and without the hugs, cajoling and pokes from of all of you, this fic would never have happened. This is the third book in a series that has yet to happen (all my DW fans can appreciate the irony in this I'm sure!), but because this one <i>has</i> happened, it is a sure sign that Books One, Two and even Four might be headed your way soon! So...this one is for you - dear friends, lovely lurkers and all readers who happen to stumble by. Thank you. I certainly hope this is worth the wait! (Written for <span class="ljuser ljuser-name_superwho_bb"><a href="http://superwho-bb.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://superwho-bb.livejournal.com/"><b>superwho_bb</b></a></span>.)<br/><b><span class="u">A/N2:</span></b> <a id="cutid1" name="cutid1"></a>Some Special Thank Yous for those wonderful people who put up with constant emails, crying, sweating and horrid sentence structure/grammar/punctuation. Big Thank You to my lovely Ange (<span class="ljuser ljuser-name_stjra"><a href="http://stjra.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://stjra.livejournal.com/"><b>stjra</b></a></span>) who pushed me until I signed up. I certainly never would have done so without her encouragement (miss you, darling!)! And Big Thank You to Laura (<span class="ljuser ljuser-name_lonewytch"><a href="http://lonewytch.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://lonewytch.livejournal.com/"><b>lonewytch</b></a></span>) who gave me some great ideas and loads of support - whether it be hand-holding, smacking or promises of treats if I was good. Would never have finished this without you, Love! A Big Thank You to another Epic Cheerleader, Dee (<span class="ljuser ljuser-name_deeremet"><a href="http://deeremet.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://deeremet.livejournal.com/"><b>deeremet</b></a></span>) , whose kind words, beautiful insights and delightful Squee has kept me going, even when I thought I couldn't anymore!Another Big Thank You to my ever-patient and OH-SO-TALENTED Artist, <span class="ljuser ljuser-name_usarechan"><a href="http://usarechan.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://usarechan.livejournal.com/"><b>usarechan</b></a></span>! Ye GODS, darling!! Not only did you suffer through my contant delays with grace and charm, but your Artwork is simply breathtaking! I can only hope my fiction lives up to it in somewhere along the line! And last (or first, depending, lol!) HUGE Thank You to my dearest Sean (<span class="ljuser ljuser-name_justmmy"></span><a href="http://justmmy.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://justmmy.livejournal.com/"><b>justmmy</b></a>), who has put up with sentences disguised as mini-buses, horrid punctuation (of the Epic!Fail variety) and basic slash-n-burn manglings of the English language in a way only I can do it (feel free to edit this run-on sentence, bb *grins*). Without your mad skillz, this ficcy would have flopped, love. So thank you for stepping up to the plate again and rescuing me from myself! That being said, any errors, fails and screw-ups are mine and mine alone.<a id="cutid1-end" name="cutid1-end"></a><br/><b><span class="u">Disclaimer:</span> Not mine, nope! All the wishing and pleading with the PTB have not changed this. The wonderful Doctor and His Companions still belong to BBC, BBC Worldwide (and for now) the epic S. Moffat. Dean, his wonderful family and the world they occupy still belong to the CW, Scrap Metal and Entertainment, the awesome E. Kripke and the lovely S. Gamble. So please no sue - just having fun here!</b></p><div class="center">
<br/><b><span class="u">Link for Art:</span> <a href="http://usarechan.livejournal.com/4960.html"><i>Art Masterpost</i></a></b><br/><b><span class="u">Link for Soundtrack:</span> <a href="http://a-phoenixdragon.livejournal.com/701713.html"><i>Links To Soundtrack</i></a></b><br/></div></blockquote>





	When I Find My Peace of Mind

**~When I Find My Peace of Mind~**

  


_Odd buzzing noise near his ear._

_Answered by an electric screech above that feels like it should be just out of range of his hearing and yet it’s not. It’s also not unpleasant, though he feels like it should be. It also feels like he should be feeling_ something _._

_Someone is humming…_

__Turn up the radio…I wanna feel it gotta give me some more __

_Familiar._

_Dean reaches out (flails really) and hits something rough, yet smooth all at once. The something lets out a startled yelp._

_“Oi! Stop that!”_

_And cool hands are folding around his, pushing his arms back down._

_He hears more musical humming (around-underneath-within), but it’s not from The Voice –  
_

He knew _that voice._

_Reaches out again (can’t see for some reason) and encounters buttons; up, up and he’s got…a bowtie?_

__The Doctor _._

 _“Hey. Stop that,” the voice (_ the Doctor _) said calmly – annoyingly amused. Or is that amusingly annoyed? Never can tell with him. Dean’s hands were folded back down and the Doctor’s voice traveled a little distance away – maybe to avoid being felt up any further._

_Dean had no idea why that thought was funny rather than horrifying._

_“You have to buy me a drink first…then maybe. But not really. Wonder if you’ve ever met Jack? Think you’d like him – he’d definitely like_ you _, but that’s neither here nor there, is it? Still owes me a drink. And his hands were all wandery – like yours are now, though he was rather less drugged and broken bits at the time. Well…_ that _time at least. And you… ”_

_The prattling paused, usually not a good thing, but the Doctor was back to humming – and why was that tune familiar? Besides the obvious._

_“Took a bit of a trek to get back here,” the Doctor finally said (from the other side of him this time). “But the Old Girl was ready for us…shame you were all passed out and – stop messing with that! It’s covering your eyes to assess your neural functions. Dunno why it needs the eyes, but that’s logic for you. Always less logical and more with the brain-bending – of course your brain isn’t actually_ bending _, if that’s what you were worried about.”_

 _Some more humming and Dean felt warmth wash over him, setting his body to shivering. Or maybe it was the introduction of the warmth that was alerting him to having been cold. So_ confused _–_

 __Why didn’t he hurt more? __

_“Anyway, Sexy was a bit disappointed. You weren’t awake for Her serenade. Cheeky old thing. She likes you, if ‘Bad to the Bone’ is anything to go by.” A deep chuckle, another metallic screech, more warmth. “And it is…something to go by. Lift your right arm, wiggle your fingers.”_

_Dean did as instructed, even though he knew he shouldn’t be able to. Black Dogs got him on his right side, he remembered that much. Blinding waves of pain and the Doctor’s voice and stumbling through the woods and –_

_Singing. They had been singing…_

__The only time I turn it down – is when I’m feeling alone __

_How did he get here?_

_Was something else chasing them?_

_“Don’t worry about it, Dean,” a gentle command, but a firm one all the same. “Seems you bit off a tad more than you could chew, but that’s alright, we’ll soon get it sorted. All nice and safe now, in the TARDIS.”_

_Some more satisfied humming, then another electronic screech. Dean wished he could_ see _– for just a_ moment _–_

_“I’ll have that off you in no time, just a few more adjustments to make. Doesn’t mean you’ll be able to move right away though, sorry – you’re stuck here for at least a full 24 hours…or is that 28? We’ll find out soon enough, I suppose.” Quick shuffling sounds to his right, the whisper-creak of the Doctor’s boots across a floor (tile?) and some more distracted humming._

_“Don’t rightly know what you’ve gotten yourself into,” the Doctor muttered, sounding like he was talking more to himself then Dean (and knowing him, he probably was). His voice was both agitated and fond with the prospect of an adventure around the corner. The Doctor loved adventures._

_“I do love an adventure.”_

_Dean had to supress a chuckle at that, and the Doctor’s voice had a smile when he leaned over him to do…_ something _. There was an increase in pressure on Dean’s right side, then he was commanded to wiggle his fingers again._

 _“Right. Well then! Halfway there, yes? Anyway, as I was saying…” another distracted murmur, another electronic wail and then (_ there it was _) the mild buzz of the Doctor’s sonic screwdriver. “Just another…there we go! What was I saying? Ah, yes – you seemed to have stumbled across something a little_ bigger _than what you were originally hunting. Of course, you didn’t know that – so, lucky I turned up then, eh? Oh, get that look off your face. Anyway, I swooped in, then we staggered out and off we popped, into the TARDIS. Whatever is waiting out there…well, I’ll have a look once you are more stabilised.”_

 __Can’t go out there by yourself, Doctor. __

 _“’Course I can.” It was said irritably, which meant –_ shit _, Dean had said that out loud. “I just generally prefer not to – stop that now, you’re going to off-set the healing process and then where will you be? Stuck here longer, that’s what.”_

_Dean could feel himself starting to fade. The lack of pain, combined with warmth left him more tired than he could stand – but he didn’t want to sleep just yet. There was something important he needed to say, something –_

_“It is perfectly alright, Dean,” the Time-Lord soothed._

_Cool fingers brushed across his forehead, the gesture fond and yet somehow exasperated…and way more comforting than he had any right to expect._

_“Get some rest. We’ll talk later. There are…a few things we need to talk about, I think.”_

  
***~*~***   


_It was later that it came apart._

_It started when he had awakened in what turned out to be the Time-Machine’s medical bay – which shouldn’t have been odd in and of itself and yet it somehow_ was _; even as he knew medical facilities should be part and parcel of any travel._

_It went wrong mere minutes after he blinked awake._

_When he found the he could see, the first thing Dean noticed was the Doctor watching him. His eyes were sad and knowing, his voice calm as he gently asked how long Dean had been drinking...or had he never really stopped?_

_The question shouldn't have angered him as much as it did._

_The Doctor's voice was soft and his expression kindly understanding (understanding! he had no_ right _to be_ understanding _). In less than three questions, the Doctor's demeanor undid_ years _worth of denial. Dean had done the only thing he could do – he fought back, even as the Doctor was unarmed. He tried to torpedo any hope of assistance, even as he saw the Doctor wasn’t going to stop, wasn’t going to turn away…no matter how much Dean wished he would._

_He wanted him to be like everybody else, even as the Time-Lord was like no one else. Dean needed to have his own reasons for seeking liquid oblivion shored up. He needed the Doctor to be angry back, dismissive or condescending –_

_“Why should you even_ care _?” Dean had snapped, horrified at himself even as he wanted to rage against a being that he considered a friend, considered family. But look how his family and friends treated him – why shouldn’t the Doctor do the same? “You’re only going to leave in the end, anyway, what does it_ matter _?”_

 _The Doctor rose from his chair at that, eyes too kind and ancient and tired as he attempted a smile that fell flat across his lips. He didn’t answer – and those questions would haunt Dean days later, when the Doctor would decide for them both how to save_ him _, Dean Winchester, and not himself, when he chose to leave in a way that was not acceptable then and wasn’t acceptable now. Only at that time, in those moments, did Dean have a choice (or he found one, he was never really sure). This time things were a little different. He didn’t have to like it, but he could come to terms with it._

_But it didn’t mean that it didn’t matter._

_It didn’t (couldn’t) stop him from caring._

_Seemed the Doctor’d had the last word after all – without even saying a thing._

  
**DW~SPN~DW~SPN~DW**   


It was hot.

Not one of those pleasant types of hot that had you sipping lemonade out on a front porch, listening to a radio and planning your next barbeque; but a wrapped in wet towels, slowly suffocating type of hot that left you drained as soon as you woke up, sleepwalking through the day only to wish you could sleep that night. Combine that with being in a pine cabin that had seen better days, no air conditioning to speak of and miles of nothing all around – and you got the type of heat that made tempers fray and finally snap.

Television was on the blink again, too.

Which meant books that were either written in Latin that gave Dean a headache, or books that he had already read five times out of sheer boredom that could potentially give him (not to mention Sam and Bobby) a headache before he was two paragraphs in. This left him with crossword puzzles, a radio that only got two stations (country and modern rock) and the pervasive April heat that never seemed to taper off. Even a beer couldn’t touch it – which also did nothing to ease his temper.

The very last thing that made him so tempermental was hidden under a couch cushion where Sam and Bobby were least likely to spot it, where he could ignore it as he chose (though it never really left his mind). It wasn’t like it gave him nightmares (though it did); it wasn’t like it carried bad memories back to the surface with just the few lines of ink stamped across it (though it did that, too). It was more the finality of it. It was like a few lines of type being handed to a fresh widow by a couple of crisp young men in uniform, their faces drawn in a standard issue ‘we are so sorry for your loss’ look. It was nothing like that, yet that’s exactly what it was.

A contradiction in terms, just like the envelope it was wrapped in. The envelope was blue – / _bluest-blue; bigger on the inside_ / – but nothing so small could contain the enormity of what it meant.

“Shouldn’t matter,” Dean muttered to the empty cabin (for what was probably the thousandth time since he had found the damned thing). “It’s not like you really _knew_ him.”

The sting of betrayal when he said that out loud hadn’t gotten any better. It was the truth, but it still didn’t make it better. It wasn’t the length of time – he knew that. You could know someone all their life and never know them (he had tons of examples to draw from), and yet meet the friend of a lifetime and only get five minutes with them.

But he also didn’t want to care either. Caring only made it harder. It only made it worse.

So he did it the Winchester way – and just ignored it.

Didn’t seem to be working out too well though.

His dreams the past two nights were filled with green fire overlaid by a golden light so bright your eyes ached to see it. A full moon in midday over a placid lake of blue surrounded by red sand. There was only one voice – in all the dream – only one. And he knew it as well as he knew Sam’s, or Bobby’s, or his own father’s.

And he would see _him_ and know it was over –

/ _“I’m sorry –”_ / 

Drinking hadn’t looked so good since he had crawled out of Hell. And considering how their lives had fully blown apart in the last month, that was saying something.

So he supposed he resented it. The madman in a blue box showed up and his life went to shit again. He knew it wasn’t the Doctor’s fault – _when was it ever_ truly _his fault?_ – but it was just one dominio in a series that landed him here with no car, Bobby’s place blown to a ragged hole in the ground, Sam getting Hell-o-vision 24/7 (and hiding it badly) and a leg in a cast up to his hip, stewing it all over with nothing to do but stare at the Spanish channel (when it came in proper) and wish he was hunting, drinking or fucking; anything but thinking. Thinking led to bad places in his mind, places that no amount of shitty TV, shitty books or even shittier beer could erase.

No, it wasn’t his fault. Dean had pushed, he got his answer – and he had tried to put it out of his mind.

Until the envelope arrived.

Now he couldn’t get it out of his head, no matter what he did.

“Would help if I could get better crosswords,” he mused aloud.

Yeah. Not the slightest bit funny.

“Off your game, Winchester,” he grumbled, hauling off of the couch to grab a beer and check the mail slot on his circuit around the cabin. It was his fifteenth circuit of the day, but it helped ease the tension and pass the time. With no Bobby or Sam to give him cross-eyed looks though, the gesture felt oddly empty.

There was nothing at the front door anyway. And weirdly enough, until the envelope showed up, (dated two years before with stamps from all over the world), there never had been. No one delivered out here. No one _knew_ they were out here. Which was how they preferred it.

Hence the funny looks from Bobby and Sam.

They never called him on it though. He half wished they had; but the time of caring about the little things – the quirks and oddities they had developed over the last month – had long passed. They had never been tied so close together and yet, he had never been so removed from his brother and surrogate father.

Being in a cabin out in the middle of bumfuck didn’t make you lonely.

Being in a cabin in the middle of bumfuck surrounded by strangers wearing your family’s faces made you lonely. And he knew he wasn’t the only one who felt that way. It was why Sam was out on a solo hunt and Bobby was out on a two day supply run.

He had come to the conclusion yesterday (as they were both packing up to go) that it was terrible when you had to _be_ alone to feel _less_ alone. And it was even worse when the people you loved felt the same way you did. Close quarter confinement hadn’t sat well on any of them; and though they were loathe to leave him laid up, they needed to escape before all three men killed each other.

It was terrible when contentment settled over your bones as the door clicked shut; when even the heat seemed less oppressive as the sound of two car engines cranking and then pulling away floated through the mosquito netting over the windows.

But, that was yesterday.

Dean hobbled to the television and flicked the on button, pulling a disgusted face when he got nothing but static (pounding on the top only made the piece of shit warble alarmingly before going back to white noise). He flicked back it off and dragged his leg to the radio, turning it up full volume and trying to fill the cabin with some noise to distract his mind.

Anything to keep from thinking about that blue omen lodged under the middle cushion of the crumbling couch. With any luck, the damned thing would disappear amid the dust and disintegrating foam, never to be seen again.

For a moment, he felt a sense of panic at the idea and then waved it off, feeling mildly ashamed for wishing it would happen. That envelope would probably sit there until doomsday if he let it. And with how he felt right now – he probably would. Doomsday was always around the corner anyway…

He busied himself washing up the few meager dishes that he had let pile in the sink (for moments just like these) and hummed tunelessly as he worked. It was only when he was halfway through the second stanza did he realise the tune he was humming had nothing to do with the tune blaring out from the radio (another standard emo crapfest) and stopped immediately, goosebumps crawling along his arms –

_The only time, I turn it down – is when I’m feeling alone…_

“Fuck,” Dean whispered, staring down at the half-dry coffee cup in his hands. “Fucking figures you’d ruin the only good song Autograph came out with.”

The thought was disloyal and unworthy, but his chest ached too much already to feel ashamed. Waking up the last two mornings had been hell. Hiding the fact that he might have been crying when he had done so was even worse. Bobby and Sam didn’t know about the envelope…

“ _They have no_ right _to know_ ,” he thought, fiercely.

And he was in no rush to fill them in. Yeah, it was another secret. Yeah, he should probably have told them. But it wasn’t like they had fallen all over themselves to tell him when Rory called two months ago. And the Doctor wasn’t _their_ friend. The Doctor was his… _had been his_ …friend. This was Dean’s alone, his to deal with alone. And if _that_ was selfish and untrustworthy and disloyal, well – he had earned a one-off, right?

“Why am I thinking about this again?” He muttered irritably, setting the coffee mug down a little harder than intended (the ‘thonk’ sound it made against the counter was highly satisfying). “I’m suppose to forget this, just…let it go.”

But that wasn’t fair, either. He had asked for an answer – the Doctor had conceded his wishes. It wasn’t his fault that it was the worst timing possible.

“But when is the timing good?” He shrugged. “When I start talking to myself or just before?”

He chuckled to himself, the sound filling the spaces the radio left void and it almost felt good, it almost felt like home. Odd, as his home was metal and glass encasing an engine on four wheels, but this moment was as close to contentment as he could find with a broken leg, bad memories at the door and more just ahead. Okay, he was in a shitty cabin with a busted TV, nothing to really do and a radio that had only two stations coming in clear (if they came in at all) – but Sam was alive, Bobby was alive and he was alive (even if severely bored). Sam was next door to bonkers, Bobby had lost his home and Dean was laid up and out of the game; but they were all alive.

Which, as things went, was more than he could say for the madman with a blue box.

The chuckle died on his lips and he scowled at the now-dry coffee mug with a species of childish resentment. It wasn’t going to leave him alone until he dealt with it. He asked, the Doctor (or someone close to him) had delivered, so it was no one’s fault but his own. Normally he could bury this, put it out of his head – but circumstances here of late were anything but normal (even for them), and putting things out of his head had gotten almost impossible.

Not to mention if he kept putting this off and happened to nap out on that couch –

/ _Flashes of green and gold; full moon so, so vivid in the Western sky; the Doctor’s face full of sorrow and apology –_

_“I’m sorry –”_ / 

“Fuck.”

It was impossible. There was no way to know what happened. There was no way he could be positively one hundred percent sure. But he knew in his gut – this was how the Doctor died. This was not how he was going to die, this was not how he was dying right now. This was how he _had_ died –

Almost two years ago to the day.

It was horrifying that you would almost rather go back to flashbacks of your less than pleasant experiences in Hell than relive something so simple and so…final. He could almost smell the salt coming off of the lake, the red wine they had been drinking during the picnic. The golden light surrounding the Doctor (ohh, how he remembered that light and all it meant), made his eyes ache and his mind slide sideways; but you wished it would keep doing that, not matter how much it hurt – because soon the green fire would come and end it all.

But it had already happened.

He didn’t know how he knew that either (after all, a postmark doesn’t mean diddly to a Time-Traveler), but he had always trusted his gut and his gut told him it had already happened. He was getting the instant replay two years late, that was all.

And likely he was getting that instant replay because of the envelope that contained a message he had pressed the Time-Lord for.

The Doctor himself would say ‘timey-wimey, spacey-wacey’ but all that really boiled down to was a big fat he didn’t know (or have time to explain). But Dean had an idea of why he was seeing the Doctor’s death – and only half of it was because of an envelope that was likely layered in vortex energy. The other half was a year (almost a lifetime ago) when the Doctor tried to convince a bad guy to back off by pretending to be a bad guy himself. It wasn’t the first time the Doctor had brushed his mind – but it was one of the hardest hitting – and it seemed to have left something behind; and that envelope was responding to it.

“He was already dead then,” Dean mumbled to the pile of dishes on the counter. “He was dead and neither of us knew.”

He didn’t want to open that envelope.

He didn’t want to end that chapter of his life.

It was a crazy chapter, it was full of horror and pain and guilt and fear and anger – but it was a time when he had made an unlikely friend. A friend that hadn’t let him down once. Well…so far, anyway. The only way the Doctor had truly let him down was by doing what he had to do and not surviving it.

Dean blinked back moisture as he carefully put away the dried dishes, angry at himself for being so close to tears (for the third time in two days) and angry at the Doctor for ever dropping into his life in the first place. He knew that wasn’t fair. He knew it wasn’t right. But sometimes, the head and the heart disagreed and it was just best to let them duke it out until one or the other had won.

He breathed through the ache in his chest, trying to find a way to pull himself together, get it over with so he would just know already – when his cell rang. He jerked up, instantly alert and more than mildly suspicious – _No one has this number except…_ Bobby _and_ Sam – the suspicion curdling into alarm when it rang three times, then hung up. The silence that fell afterwards was almost highlighted by the blaring of the radio from the other room.

He took two deep breaths before pushing away from the sink, aware that any calls to his cell were likely to be trouble (already made or ready to start) and the sharp burst of adrenaline that accompanied the jangling of the phone hadn’t helped with thinking. He made his (irritatingly slow) way to the table where he had dropped his phone, and glanced over the caller id, the taste of fear and worry like hot iron across the back of his tongue, his heart racing along like he had somewhere else to be.

A couple more deep breaths cleared his head and calmed the slamming behind his ribcage, panic receding as fast as it had descended; years of training at his father’s side kicked in without too much thought on his part. He welcomed the cloak of detachment, letting the adrenaline do it’s job at keeping him sharp, without letting it interfere with his reactions to the situation at hand (or soon to be at hand). He was doubly grateful when he saw the name that flashed on the screen, though he had to squash the grin that wanted to tag on the heels of his almost-heart-attack.

_Well…try to avoid thinking of the devil and up pops one of his minions._

Though Amelia Jessica Pond was hardly anyone’s minion. He actually winced at the idea of someone being stupid enough to say such a thing to her face and hit the call out button, letting himself imagine all the lines it had to race through to reach her; then the phone on the other end was being picked up.

“’ullo Dean.”

Well. She sounded like Amy – all Scottish and lovely (he’d had quite a few delicious daydreams involving her accent – not that he’d tell her that); but she sounded more…subdued. Like all the fire had been temporarily knocked out of her and that left him breathless with hurt all over again. He knew. He had known – the second he saw that envelope, he had known. He dreamed of it. He had even thought he had come to accept it.

Sometimes, being wrong really fucking bit it.

“It happened then.” He cut straight to the chase, knowing it probably hurt her more than it did him – / _He’s my friend. My_ best _friend…_ / – but he also knew she’d appreciate the candor more than any kindness. She had seen it. She had been right there and she had _seen_ –

“Yes, ‘fraid so,” Amy murmured, a small laugh that sounded anything other than merry ringing through the phone to punch him straight in the gut. “Two years ago now. Almost to the hour – well… _our_ time, anyway.”

Dean nodded before he remembered she couldn’t see him.When he spoke, his voice steadier than he expected, but still gruffer than he would have liked.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know. So’m I, yeah? I was hoping, but…” She trailed off and he could hear the click of her nails as she tapped them against the phone, her sorrow and nervousness narrowed down to the pattern she tattooed against the plastic. “He always wins. He always –”

“Just not this time,” Dean finished, voice thick with renewed grief – and when did this shit ever end?

“But he saved us. He’s always doing that, the numpty.” She breathed and he could hear her trying to rally – for him, if for nothing else – and it warmed him even as it made him feel crushed by all the things that wouldn’t be. “So…I’m assuming –”

“Well…Rory called a couple of months ago,” Dean replied, noting her hum of disapproval – _oops_ – before continuing, ticking off events making him feel steadier, more put together. “Then the Doctor landed on my doorstep a month later, kind of to give me heads up I expect –”

“Bloody idiot,” she murmured.

“Everything went to hell on our end and two days ago –”

“He sent you an envelope,” she interrupted, sounding more astounded than questioning. “TARDIS-blue, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Dean replied, too weary to be surprised. “I’m assuming he sent one to all of his friends?”

Amy laughed at that, sounding a bit warmer, but he could still tell he was being called a chucklehead by the way she laughed. It shouldn’t have, but it made him feel a bit better – a little more normal.

“Only certain ones,” she corrected. “Most of us received an invitation with a time and place to meet…but I’m assuming yours…didn’t? Well – it was two _years_ ago, so I’m hoping –”

“I don’t know,” Dean interjected, feeling foolish and heartsick all at once. He was grateful he hadn’t gotten one like Amy had, as he could only guess what the time, date and place led to, but he still felt warm that the Doctor had included him in the list of friends to receive something he considered important.

“You…haven’t –”

“Opened it, no,” Dean supplied, feeling a little more foolish now that he’d admitted it out loud. “I haven’t been able to bring myself to…I don’t know. Make it real?”

Amy was quiet, her nails ceasing their tapping – and he wondered if she was going to hang up, just leave it at that and call it good. She had called to make sure he knew, she had done him that much of a kindness, her part was technically over; a thought that made him just that much sadder and more than a little desperate to keep her on the line. Once they disconnected, he had a feeling he’d never talk to her again. It wasn’t a gut feeling, so it wasn’t a sure thing – but it felt close enough to the truth to make him feel like he had lost more than the Doctor and all that he had meant.

“I can understand that,” she murmured. “God knows if I could rewind –”

“I’m sorry,” Dean said sadly.

/ _He’s my_ best friend./

“Don’t be,” Amy soothed, giving Dean the crazy urge to giggle. She had witnessed it first hand – two years ago, yes, but she had been _right there_ – and she was trying to make _him_ feel better. “I was where I was suppose to be. I was right there with my friend, where he wanted me to be. Where I needed to be. Even if I could change that…”

“You wouldn’t,” Dean replied, knowing full well what that was like and knowing how very true what she said was. If he could go back and change what happened to Castiel, he would – but if he was given the option to either be there or…not, he knew which option he would take.

“I wouldn’t,” she agreed.

Things were quiet for a moment – not awkward, just more of a sharing of memories and keeping of thoughts than anything else. Dean was grateful because it let him sort it all out and he was sure Amy felt the same.

“You don’t…you don’t have to tell me what it says, when you open it,” she began hesitantly. “Christ knows that’s for you alone, that is yours to keep or let go of. But – don’t be a stranger, yeah? Rory and I…we’ve met a lot of good people. We don’t want to lose that, you know? And he wouldn’t want us to lose that either. He was all about that – making friends and…”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed with a gruff laugh. “Yeah, he was. Same to you, Amy Pond-Williams. Goes both ways you know.”

She laughed again, sounding a little lighter – though she didn’t sound like the girl who had just gotten married and was taking a rather long honeymoon that he had met three years before. She sounded a little sadder, but also a little wiser and more grounded. Whether or not that was a good thing, time would tell. But Dean didn’t think she regretted having met the Doctor – and as much as losing him hurt, he found he couldn’t regret it, either.

“Have you ever wished though –”

“Not once,” she cut in, voice firm and steady as she countered what he had been thinking. “Never. Good and bad – it has made me who I am. Kind of like who I am, even compared to who I thought I wanted to be. I couldn’t make _him_ understand that. He was so convinced that he had made things…worse for us. And there was no talking him around it. But it was an adventure. I wouldn’t trade it for anything else.”

“Yeah,” Dean croaked, horrified that he was tearing up again, but knowing Amy would be the last person to call him on it. “Yeah it was….listen – you take good care of that husband of yours. Troublemaker if there ever was one.”

Amy laughed again, her voice also thick – but oddly happy – and he could feel something inside settle a little firmer than before; a relief and a loss all at once.

“I’ll do tha’ – look after your brother, cowboy.”

Dean grinned. “Never seem to stop.”

“I’ll talk to you later, then?” She sounded hopeful, but ready to be disappointed – considering Dean had felt that way not but a minute before (and for the same reason), he put as much sincerity as he could muster in his reply, more than a little surprised that he intended to do as promised.

“Definitely, Amy.”

“And oi, Stupid – try not to start another Apocalypse, yeah? Some of us are trying to get back to normal over here.” Playfully, but with just enough worry to convey that she knew partly what was going on. And that he’d better check up with her regularly, just to keep her from coming to investigate. It amazed him and frightened him more than a little (and not just because having a grumpy ginger on your tail was scary), that he had actual _friends_ – real flesh and blood people that weren’t hunters – all because he had met a man with a machine that could go anywhere and anywhen in all of time and space. It wouldn’t seem like much to anyone else, but to him (not to mention Sam and Bobby) it meant everything.

“We’ll try to keep the End Times down to a dull roar,” he countered dryly, pleased when she laughed again, her goodbye bittersweet – but filled with the promise of hearing her voice again.

 _Rory_ on the other hand…

He winced again, wondering what kind of hell that poor man was in for as he set the phone down – his heart warmer even as it still sat heavy within his chest; Amy’s call a blessing and a curse all at the same time.

It was official.

It was real.

The Doctor was dead.

_Don’t have to open it now, do I?_

He closed his eyes and tried to breathe again, not caring that the moisture in his eyes couldn’t be attributed to the vast amounts of dust in the cabin or the allergies he didn’t have. Even if Sam and Bobby stepped through that door right now, he was sure he wouldn’t stop and for once, he shouldn’t have to. He had lost more in just a few years than most men would in a lifetime – and there was always more to lose. He had lost a friend today. It may have happened years ago as far as the rest of the world was concerned, but it had been made official today. He was allowed to mourn. He had been through things that would leave most barking and drooling in a mental ward (and seen that firsthand, actually) – he was allowed this moment.

The radio crooned out the opening notes to The Chili Pepper ‘Soul to Squeeze’ and he smiled despite himself, even though the song was one of their more melancholy tunes – _older song, dumbasses_ – letting the notes soothe him as he wiped away tears for a man long dead only a few minutes ago.

Anthony Kiedis crooned mellow and thoughtful in the background as he retrieved the envelope, half relieve and half sad to find it still there. His fingers brushed over the stamps from Italy, Australia and England (to name a few) as he took his seat, the postmarked date (April 22nd, 2011), carrying it’s own memories. The weight of those memories far heavier and more horrifying now that he knew what fell on the same date. Now that he knew _who_ had fallen on that same date. He let his mind drift to that dark time, his fingers drifting over the various stamps that adorned the front – even as the envelope itself looked pristine and freshly posted, not a crinkle or smudge-mark to mar its surface.

It had been a rough year, 2011. It started badly and ended worse – but on that particular day, he and Sam had just gotten done with a salt and burn, too afraid and heartsick for Bobby to try to do anything bigger, unsure whether or not the man would even answer their calls any more. But helping to kill a man’s wife for the second time and burn her body didn’t exactly lead to hand-holding and off tune renditions of ‘Kumbaya’. Sam and Dean had truly thought they had lost him, that knowing them had finally caught up with the older hunter and he had declared himself done.

They wouldn’t have blamed him at all. They never said as much to each other and heavens knew the brothers Winchester hadn’t exactly seen eye to eye for awhile, even at that time – but they had made a silent vow that if Bobby was done with them, they’d leave him be. They’d make sure he was safe – that a Winchester would never darken his door again, if that’s what he had wished.

It was an uncertain time – filled with darkness.

And on April 22nd, 2011 at 8:22pm (5:22pm West Coast time)…the earth stood still.

Dean was sure then he hadn’t imagined it. He and Sam had turned to one another and exchanged ‘oh shit’ looks, interlaced with ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I love you’ all wrapped in one as the planet held it’s breath – for just a moment.

Just one little space of time.

Green light had flashed across his vision – and a voice ( **his** voice) just an echo –

/ _“You are always and_ completely _forgiven.”_ /

And then the world breathed again and they were left blinking in its wake.

He never knew what Sam saw. What he heard or felt. Neither brother acknowledged or discussed it. But Sam had nothing to say about his drinking that night, as he was too busy joining him to protest.

And the next day, they woke up to shotguns in their faces – and their world got a whole lot shakier than it had ever been before. Their views on the afterlife, angels and each other went to hell in a hurry – and wasn’t it just fitting that it all started with the death of one man; a man who had changed them when they had first met, without their even knowing just how much.

“You weren’t even anywhere near us and you brought trouble,” Dean chuckled, wiping at a stray tear as Anthony declared in the background, his voice wistful, but filled with hope – and wouldn’t the Doctor just love that?

_When I’ve found my peace of mind…I’m gonna keep it til the end of Time –_

“Sing it, man,” Dean grinned, not knowing what lay inside the envelope, but knowing the Doctor had lived up to his end of the deal before he died. The least Dean could do was see what he’d had to say.

The next song started (some tune made popular the year before) and Dean went to go turn it down, but at the last minute decided to let it be – wondering if the Doctor would appreciate the subtle irony of the lyrics. Which was really a stupid thought because of course he would, the crazy fucker. It wasn’t normally a song Dean would listen to, but he secretly enjoyed it whenever it came on the radio (something he’d never let Sam know in a million years), so he let it roll, the singer’s voice filling the cabin with cheer as he flipped the envelope over in his hands, fingers tracing the sealed flap as he wondered if he should just tear it open – or do it the proper way and unseal the flap.  


Either way the Doctor would approve he was sure.

_I thought I gave it to you months ago. I know you’re trying to forget – but between the drinks and subtle things, the holes in my apologies, I…I’m trying hard to take it back –_

The proper way it was then.

He pulled out his pocketknife, wondering for a mere flash of insanity if the Doctor had sealed this the ‘normal, human’ way – and if there would be any Time-Lord germs on his knife when he got done opening the fucking thing. He restrained the urge to giggle and then told himself to stop being stupid.

Of course he wouldn’t.

Time-Lord DNA couldn’t just be frittered about willy-nilly like that.

He found he had to bite his lip to keep from laughing out loud at that and knew that if anyone was watching, he would look like the lunatic he felt he was for that fraction of a second; crying crazily one minute and trying to hold laughter in the next.

It was a mixture of relief, sadness and genuine joy when he finally got the flap open. The Doctor had sent this. He had sent it for _him_ – he had bothered to care about one Dean Winchester; and though the door was closing, he was hoping it would lead to another one to open.

Nothing ever truly ends.

Nothing is ever truly lost or forgotten.

We’re all just Stories in the end…

He had learned a lot through the alien with a man’s face and the heart of two of the same. He could only hope he applied those lessons wisely. He was sure the Doctor had done just that with whatever he took away with him.

He was just like that.

_Now, I know that I’m not all that you’ve got…I just thought…that maybe we could new ways to fall apart. But our friends are back – so let’s raise a toast. Cause I found someone to carry my ho-ome tonight –_

“Yeah,” Dean breathed, face aching with the smile that held back more tears. “He’d love this song.”

Two more deep breaths and he had pulled out the little square of (expensive, fancy – probably stolen) stiff parchment, envelope laid down reverently as he tried to pull himself out of the tug of war in his head long enough to read the Doctor’s last missive.

He had expected a note – maybe not long, but a few sentences – and was surprised to find the date, time and place ‘invitation’ Amy had mentioned scrawled in cramped copperplate across the top only to be scribbled out hastily (with a different pen), like the writer had realized only at the last second that Dean wasn’t going to make the party. He could feel a grin tugging at the corners of his lips as he looked it over, half afraid to look at the single sentence below – the lack of rambling ominous and yet relieving all at once.

It still took yet another steadying breath to read it – and it was released on a sigh as he finally read what he had been dreading (and outright avoiding) for two whole days:

_I FOUND MY ANSWER._

“Ohh, Doctor,” Dean murmured, the ache in his chest intensifying for a mere moment before easing again, his heart heavy even as he tried to smile. “Guess you got to the ‘why’, huh?”  


He was just about ready to stuff the paper back into the envelope (and lock it away in his ‘keepsake’ box), when he noticed a little arrow hastily drawn in at the bottom, overlooked only because it was sitting right under his thumb. Curious (and more than a little amused), Dean flipped the card over, only to find it was blank.

“Huh…” Dean muttered, mildly dismayed. “Not keen on riddles, Doc.”

But then, the Doctor already knew that. He liked a good joke as much as the next guy – but he wasn’t the type to go to the trouble to draw in an arrow that lead nowhere. He liked jokes – not pranks. And certainly not pranks at the expense of a friend who was already having it rough.

Still…the card held no clues. Nor did the outside of the envelope – and when he shook the envelope over the table nothing else fell out, which left him mildly disappointed and just a little pissed that the Doctor chose to go scatterbrained just as he was sending Dean his farewell message.

“Oh well,” Dean shrugged, finally, giving it up as a lost cause. “It’s not like the man didn’t have a lot on his mind, what with the dying and all.”

He read the message a few more times, smile sitting more comfortably (if a little sadly) on his lips, the ache reminding him that it had been a long while since he had smiled at all. It didn’t feel half bad, actually – and in the Doctor’s memory, he vowed to try to find time to smile, maybe even laugh more often.

He even got a chance to keep that promise no more than a few seconds after he had made it.  


He was still puzzled over the arrow going to nowhere, but deemed it a lost cause – a mystery to never be solved; when he finally saw where it pointed to. A genuine bark of surprised pleasure rolled out of his mouth before he could stop it and really, why would he want to?

Underneath the flap (something he would have missed if he had opened the letter the Winchester way) was a message, just as big and bold as the answer to Dean’s question a month before and twice as cheeky. Dean could actually see the man smiling as he scrawled it in a white pencil on the blue (the bluest-blue) paper – the ultimate joke and the best reassurance he could ever give – in just one word:

****

  


**GOTCHA.**

  


If Sam and Bobby ever found the letter, they never said. But it sat safe in his lockbox after that, a sign of hope and friendship, even in the face of death. Dean only took it out when he really needed to; though the sight of it was usually a comfort on its own.

The cabin was still oppressively hot that night – and the two beers he consumed before bed really didn’t help much with his thirst at all. But he had lived (and died) through worse.

All that mattered, in the end, was that he got real sleep, with no nightmares to chase him down into slumber or back out into shocking awareness. With this life he lived and the uncertainties that followed with it – sometimes that was all you could ask for. Sometimes that was close to all that you needed.

But sometimes…

The next day, he called his brother.

Then he called Bobby.

He even called Amy; to let them know that he was okay.

That he was _going_ to be okay (and so would they), no matter what. Because sometimes you needed more than a place to lay your head and a few hours in which to do so.

Sometimes, you needed the people you love. You needed your friends. Because there were times when you couldn’t walk. Times when you couldn’t even crawl. And when those times came, you just needed someone to carry you.

You just had to let them know that you loved them enough to let them try.

 

_So if by the time the bar closes and you feel like falling down…I’ll carry you home…tonight._  


 

  


**~ FINIS**~

**Author's Note:**

>  **A/N:** As always, this fiction would not have been possible without the total support and encouragement from my little family - and my family of friends from around the world! (The Love is perpetual guise!) A lot of you know how long this road has been - and without the hugs, cajoling and pokes from of all of you, this fic would never have happened. This is the third book in a series that has yet to happen (all my DW fans can appreciate the irony in this I'm sure!), but because this one _has_ happened, it is a sure sign that Books One, Two and even Four might be headed your way soon! So...this one is for you - dear friends, lovely lurkers and all readers who happen to stumble by. Thank you. I certainly hope this is worth the wait! (Written for [](http://superwho-bb.livejournal.com/profile)[**superwho_bb**](http://superwho-bb.livejournal.com/).)  
>  **A/N2:** Some Special Thank Yous for those wonderful people who put up with constant emails, crying, sweating and horrid sentence structure/grammar/punctuation. Big Thank You to my lovely Ange ([](http://stjra.livejournal.com/profile)[ **stjra**](http://stjra.livejournal.com/) ) who pushed me until I signed up. I certainly never would have done so without her encouragement (miss you, darling!)! And Big Thank You to Laura ([](http://lonewytch.livejournal.com/profile)[ **lonewytch**](http://lonewytch.livejournal.com/) ) who gave me some great ideas and loads of support - whether it be hand-holding, smacking or promises of treats if I was good. Would never have finished this without you, Love! A Big Thank You to another Epic Cheerleader, Dee ([](http://deeremet.livejournal.com/profile)[ **deeremet**](http://deeremet.livejournal.com/) ) , whose kind words, beautiful insights and delightful Squee has kept me going, even when I thought I couldn't anymore!Another Big Thank You to my ever-patient and OH-SO-TALENTED Artist, [](http://usarechan.livejournal.com/profile)[**usarechan**](http://usarechan.livejournal.com/)! Ye GODS, darling!! Not only did you suffer through my contant delays with grace and charm, but your Artwork is simply breathtaking! I can only hope my fiction lives up to it in somewhere along the line! And last (or first, depending, lol!) HUGE Thank You to my dearest Sean ([](http://justmmy.livejournal.com/profile)[ **justmmy**](http://justmmy.livejournal.com/)), who has put up with sentences disguised as mini-buses, horrid punctuation (of the Epic!Fail variety) and basic slash-n-burn manglings of the English language in a way only I can do it (feel free to edit this run-on sentence, bb *grins*). Without your mad skillz, this ficcy would have flopped, love. So thank you for stepping up to the plate again and rescuing me from myself! That being said, any errors, fails and screw-ups are mine and mine alone.  
>  **Disclaimer: Not mine, nope! All the wishing and pleading with the PTB have not changed this. The wonderful Doctor and His Companions still belong to BBC, BBC Worldwide (and for now) the epic S. Moffat. Dean, his wonderful family and the world they occupy still belong to the CW, Scrap Metal and Entertainment, the awesome E. Kripke and the lovely S. Gamble. So please no sue - just having fun here!**
> 
>   
> **Link for Art: [_Art Masterpost_](http://usarechan.livejournal.com/4960.html)**  
>  **Link for Soundtrack: [_Links To Soundtrack_](http://a-phoenixdragon.livejournal.com/701713.html)**  
> 


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